


White Carnations

by red0aktree



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American trying to write British people rip, Background relationships not tagged - Freeform, Drinking, Flirting, Getting Together, Injury Recovery, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and high waisted slacks, figure skating, gratuitous liberties with the world of ice sports, sexually objectifying men in hockey jerseys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 03:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red0aktree/pseuds/red0aktree
Summary: Edward's team is on a losing streak against the Sirens.Thomas is deadset on scoring gold at his competition come autumn.Dating isn't on either of their schedules for the next year. Neither is falling in love. Oh, how fate likes to play with those in denial.Featuring: Scream-singing bad pop songs in Gore's minivan, vodka shots in dirty pubs, and falling for one another on the ice.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	1. The Butterfly Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning folks, I am not a hockey player nor a figure skater, so this is all a bunch of hullabaloo. 
> 
> A million thank you's to [my partner in crime](https://yprkaz.tumblr.com/). Without her none of this would have been possible. Andro, I'm throwing proverbial white carnations at your feet <3

Edward Little had a routine. A good routine. Solid, reliable, dependable. Routine was a good thing for Edward. He liked to feel as though he had both feet on solid ground. He liked to know what was coming, and how to prepare for it. 

It was easier like that. 

Edward’s routine went something like this: Work at the office five days a week, 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., lunch break at noon. Grocery store on the way home after work on Mondays, laundry after work on Wednesdays. Sundays he went to the gym, then cleaned the flat. Kitchen and bathroom every weekend, floors every other. 

Tuesdays and Thursdays he had hockey practice. Every other Saturday they played a scrimmage game, and at least once a month they played ranked. 

After games, he went out for drinks with the team, but only ever stayed for one. 

It was like clockwork. A well-oiled machine. Edward liked it that way. He’d never been very good at improvising, at adapting to the uncertain. It was best if everything was laid out before him like a neat and tidy timetable. 

He supposed hockey was good for him in that aspect. It was the antithesis of everything else in his life. 

Edward’s job was quiet, the clacking of keyboards and the whir of the copy machine. Hockey was loud, the clattering of the sticks on the ice, the cheer of the crowd. His day-to-day was steady, repetitive, nothing like the up and down of a match, the thrill of a win, and the bitter disappointment of a loss. 

On Wednesdays, Edward’s bosses brought doughnuts for ‘team morale’ but forgot his name in Thursday meetings. The Leviathans remembered his name. They clapped him on the back and praised him for a good practice, they shouted, “Good play, Little!” when he blocked a shot, they asked him to stay later at the bar and laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. 

There was a balance in it. Edward was content with his life as it was. He didn’t long for a change. 

Change had a funny way of finding people, though. Edward had learned about chaos theory at university. A minuscule action with unintended consequences. A butterfly flaps its wings in Tokyo and causes a tornado in Tennessee. 

A simple mistake of writing down May 6th instead of May 9th in his planner led to a financial report turned in two days early. An early report led to praise from his boss and a favourable employee review. 

Favourable reviews led to a promotion, a transfer to a new office building six streets over, a corner office. 

A new location meant a new bus schedule to hockey practice. 

Either he got to the rink fifteen minutes early, or five minutes late. 

_Better early than late,_ Edward reasoned. He took the early bus. 

It changed everything. 

The Leviathans had the local rink reserved for a one-hour block, twice a week. Edward had never arrived early, but he’d always assumed it was just open to the public beforehand. Kids skating with their parents, couples holding hands on the ice. He was wrong. The hour before the Leviathans’ reservation was blocked by the Bridgeport Figure Skating Club. The woman at the counter said as much when he checked in. 

“You can’t skate yet,” she told him. She popped her gum. 

“I know.” 

“You can go in, but no touching the ice until six.”

“Can I use the locker rooms?” 

“In fifteen minutes you can.” 

Edward hiked his duffle bag onto his shoulder and nodded at her. He considered waiting in the lobby until his team arrived, but the girl at the desk eyed him coldly and he felt uncomfortable under her gaze. 

“I’ll just go sit in the stands, then.” 

The path was familiar. Double doors, squeaky rubber floors, the smell of artificial cold. What was it? Nitrogen? Refrigerant fluid? Edward didn’t know. 

Edward set his bag on one of the benches and took a seat beside it. There was only one person on the ice. Edward glanced at the man, then glanced again. Then stared openly. 

Even without a clear view of his face, Edward knew he was handsome. Dark hair, falling into his face as he glided on one leg, then spun so he was skating backward. A hint of stubble peppered across his strong jaw, his pointed chin. And a figure skater’s body, visible through his tight-fitting trousers and lightweight jacket. 

His posture was impeccable, his movements graceful and nimble. There was not a moment of hesitation, not a hint of a stumble as he crossed back across the ice, as he spun and lifted one leg so high behind his back Edward wasn’t even sure it was natural to be able to move like that. 

Before Edward could gather his bearing, the man glanced at the wall clock and skated to the side of the rink. He stepped off the ice delicately and cast a glance in Edward’s direction. He didn’t seem surprised to see Edward there, watching. Edward wondered when he’d noticed him. Had he seen him come in? Had he known he was watching the entire time? 

The man smiled at Edward and nodded toward the ice as if to say, _You’re up._

His eyes were stunning. Blue, maybe. Or possibly green. Light, like a cloudless sky. 

Then he was gone. The door beneath the bleachers swallowed him whole, and Edward was left alone on the sidelines. 

The early bus wouldn’t be so bad, Edward thought. Not if it meant seeing the figure skater again. 

* * *

Thomas usually kept to himself at practice. He talked to his coach, of course. It was impossible not to, Henry Le Vesconte could get a rise out of a brick wall if he turned on the charm. Thomas talked to Sophia when they had a pairs skate planned. She was a warm person, and always knew how to get a laugh out of Thomas. Other than them, though, Thomas’s practices were usually rather quiet. 

It was better that way. Thomas was ambitious. He was focus-driven. He had big dreams of following in Le Vesconte’s footsteps and representing their city on a national stage someday. Le Vesconte said he was good enough to do it. Sometimes, Thomas even believed him. 

“That’s not going to cut it, Thomas,” Le Vesconte barked from the edge of the rink. “You’re still sinking your knee. Again, and keep your leg straight this time.” 

Thomas repositioned himself and tried again. Thomas liked this aspect of figure skating. Everything could be practised, perfected, predicted. There was an organization to it, order in it. 

Thomas had experienced enough chaos in his lifetime to never want for more. His childhood had started as an exuberant thing, combing beaches with his brother and waiting for his father’s fishing boat to return home. Then one day it didn’t. Thomas took a job then, to help his mother pay the bills. But then mother got sick, and Thomas’s job became caring for her. Then that stopped, too. His brother went away to university on a scholarship and rarely called. Thomas moved to the city, took up figure skating and a job with a local caretaking facility, and tried to keep chaos at bay as best he could. 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Le Vesconte said with a sigh. “I’m done. I swear Thomas, I’m going to strap a rod onto that knee of yours.” 

“I’ll get it,” Thomas assured him. “I’ll practice it tomorrow.” 

Thomas attended practice with Le Vesconte on weekends. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he practised on his own. Thomas liked time spent with Le Vesconte, he was the closest thing Thomas had to a best friend, but he cherished his solo practice even more. It was peaceful. It was when Thomas could be alone with his thoughts, just him and the ice. 

(And the hockey player, now, too.) 

As Thomas unlaced his skates, he watched his fellow skater practice. Cornelius Hickey. They didn’t talk much, and Thomas had never gotten the idea that Hickey liked him much. Thomas tried to be friendly whenever he could, though. 

“Your counter turns are looking good,” Thomas called across the ice. Hickey paused and glanced toward Thomas. “Are you doing a dance routine for Sunday?” 

“Guess you’ll find out,” Hickey said. He was always short with Thomas. Thomas didn’t mind. He wasn’t here to make friends, after all. 

Thomas was there to win. With a lot of determination and a little luck, he might even have a shot. Only last month, Le Vesconte had caught word that ISU scouts would be attending the competitive event next autumn. If he placed, he just might have a shot at competing internationally, for real audiences, and winning real medals. Thomas knew he’d never have a shot at something like the Olympics, but a televised event or two might be enough to satisfy his desire to prove himself. It would make Le Vesconte proud, at the very least. 

Thomas just needed to practice hard. That’s all he could do. The rest was left up to chance. 

“I want to see a perfect haircutter next week,” Le Vesconte warned Thomas as they climbed into his black sports car. “No excuses.” 

Thomas could deliver. He would just need to focus during his solo practice at the local rink. It shouldn’t be hard, Thomas was good at ignoring distractions. Though, the hockey player was proving a bit difficult. He’d watched Thomas for three weeks in a row, now. 

Thomas was almost certain his name was Little. One afternoon his team member arrived while Thomas was still on the ice and said, “Early today, eh, Little?” _Little_. Thomas thought that was a silly name. Or perhaps it wasn’t a name at all, it could have been a nickname. Hockey players were like that. The man wasn’t exactly small, but then, that could have been the joke of it. 

It didn’t matter what his name was, anyway. The man never spoke to him. He just sat on the same bench and watched. Thomas knew he was watching even when he couldn’t see Little, he could feel the man’s gaze. Little wasn’t exactly discrete about the way he stared at Thomas, but Thomas didn’t mind. 

Perhaps it was vanity or pride, but he liked knowing he’d caught the man’s attention. 

Thomas didn’t have much time for dating these days, not while juggling practice, performances, and a job to pay the bills. If he had though, Little would have been just his type. Dark eyes, dark hair, the scowl on his face due more to the slant of his brows than an actual expression of displeasure. Quiet, too, if the way he had watched for weeks without saying a word was anything to go by. They were both skaters, there would have been room for a casual conversation. _Nice laces,_ or, _How long have you skated for?_

In the end, it was Thomas who started the conversation. He stayed late on the ice just for the opportunity. Not long, just three minutes more than he normally would have. He wondered if Little would tell him, _Time’s up, it’s our turn now._ He didn’t. 

Thomas stepped off the ice and said, “Sorry, lost track of time.” 

Little rose from his seat, bag slung over his shoulder. He was of a height with Thomas. His hair had the look of someone who had meant to get it trimmed weeks ago but hadn’t. Slightly shaggy, and falling just to his eyebrows and curling around his ears.

“That’s okay,” Little said. His voice was low and surprisingly soft. He cleared his throat. “You’re a dancer.” 

“It’s called figure skating.” Thomas quirked an eyebrow. Surely Little knew that. 

“I know.” Little frowned, the kind of frown that made it clear he wished to retract to words the moment they left his lips. “You’re good.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, then nodded toward the ice. “I’ll let you get to it, then. Good luck with practice.” 

Little didn’t respond. Thomas nodded a goodbye, then disappeared into the safety of the changing rooms. 

What a perplexing thing, this hockey player was. Not impolite, exactly, but certainly his mother must have taught him it was rude to stare. It was flattering in a way, but disconcerting too. Thomas was accustomed to having eyes on him while he was on the ice. He was a performer, after all. 

But Little’s eyes didn’t just follow him on the ice. They watched him all the way to the door to the changing rooms. Thomas wondered if Little would have watched him outside the rink too, had they met on the train or in a pub. 

It didn’t do to dwell on it. Thomas had precious little time for his own needs, let alone to entertain the idea of striking up an acquaintance with the stranger. 

Thomas called Le Vesconte on his walk to the bus stop. 

“How’d it go?” Le Vesconte asked in lieu of a greeting. 

“I think you’ll be glad when you see my haircutter this Saturday,” Thomas said happily. “And I landed a double Lutz today without an issue.” 

“Full rotation?” 

“I think so, but I’ll need you to spot me next practice. I was a bit distracted today.” 

“Distracted how?”

“There’s a hockey player that keeps watching me. From the bench.” 

“He shouldn’t be allowed in there. I can call the rink, make sure he’s not allowed in until you’re finished.” 

“No, no,” Thomas said quickly. “That’s quite alright. He’s no trouble, really. He’s quiet, and never tries to get on the ice before I’m finished.” 

“If you’re certain.” Le Vesconte huffed. “Hockey players. What a rough bunch.” 

_This one seems rather gentle, really,_ Thomas wanted to say. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “It’s the sport. Oh, my bus is almost here, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Haircutters. Double Lutz. Full rotation. Those were the things that ought to be occupying Thomas’s thoughts. Not a hockey player with dark eyes and a graceless tongue. 

_You’re a dancer_ , he’d said. _You’re good._

* * *

_I know._

Christ, the look on the man’s face when Edward had said it. Surprise, confusion, a quirk of the eyebrow that clearly said, _Well, you didn’t need to be rude about it._ Edward had never been good with words. He’d never been very good with actions, either. It made for very difficult introductions and even worse first impressions. 

Perhaps it was in his best interest to pass away. Either that or sew his own lips shut. God, how he’d wanted to talk to the figure skater, how he’d imagined asking for his name, or complementing his skating. Instead, he’d made a fool of himself. 

The rest of the team didn’t arrive for another few minutes, and it was a full ten before anyone was even geared up and ready to take to the ice. Arriving five minutes late really wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Edward could be quick, could get changed and into his gear fast enough to be on the ice before Gore and Hartnell finished teasing one another about whatever was on the agenda today. 

Next week, Edward would take the later bus. He wouldn’t have to see the figure skater that way. Wouldn’t have to try to convince himself to start a conversation, wouldn’t have to inevitably embarrass himself when the words came out wrong. 

It would be better that way. 

“Listen up team,” Blanky called from the sidelines. Blanky was exactly what they needed in a coach. Rough and tumble, with more experience than anyone else on the ice. His leg injury made it so that he couldn’t play anymore, but he could still call orders like nobody’s business. “If I see one more loss against those damn Sirens, I’m kicking you all off the team.” 

“And what, you’ll take them on yourself?” Hartnell laughed. He was their goalie. A good one at that, quick and agile, with a sharp eye. 

“And what a shame it would be for all of you if I won the game by my damn self,” Blanky said. “Little, Collins, I need tighter defence out there. Last game that net was wide open. What’s your role on this team?” 

“Defencemen,” Edward said. 

“Stopping the Sirens from scoring,” Collins said. 

“And did you do that?” 

“No,” Edward and Collins said together. 

“Right then. I better not see a single goal against us next game, or we’re going to have a talk. Corner drills today, lads. Collins, you lead. Little, I want to see a stable reversal pass out there.” 

On the ice, Edward tried to keep his thoughts away from the figure skater. Reversal passes. That’s what he needed to be focused on today. Not the fact that the man had dimples when he smiled. Good Hell, Edward was a mess. 

The puck passed between himself and Collins. _Were the man’s eyes blue or green?_

Blanky shouted at Edward to focus. _Did he have trouble focusing too, or was that Edward’s flaw alone?_

Gore drilled a goal home and turned to frown at Edward. He should have stopped it. 

He should have stopped all of this. Edward knew his faults, knew he had a way of fixating on things. He should have known the figure skater would have been a problem for him from the moment he saw him. 

“What kind of dance are you doing out there Edward?” Blanky shouted. “When the puck is heading toward the goal you’re supposed to deflect it, not waltz with it!” 

_You’re a dancer._

Edward shook the thoughts from his head. He needed to focus. They’d lost three games in a row to the Sirens. Edward wasn’t about to let them lose a fourth just because he couldn’t keep his mind to himself. 

Collins’s hand was on his shoulder. “Come on mate, you’ll get it.” 

Edward took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and put his thoughts to the ice. 

They lost the match five to three. It was a better loss than some they’d faced. They nearly had it in the third period, but Hartnell left the net open for the Sirens to score a goal, and Gore overshot just before the buzzer. 

“You see Francis, the thing about the Leviathans is they play hard until the end,” one of the announcers said over the loudspeaker as the Sirens took to the ice to celebrate their win. “Even with thirty seconds on the clock they were scrabbling for a goal. Shows tenacity.” 

“Tenacity doesn’t win matches. It takes determined offence, sharp-eyed defence--” 

“And I little bit of luck.” 

“Luck has nothing to do with it, James. Good players win games. When the goal’s wide open, you take your shot.”

“And when it isn’t wide open?” 

“You fight for the win.” 

Edward stepped off the ice, and the rest of the commentators’ discussion was lost to the sounds of the changing room. Despite the whirlwind of his thoughts as of late, Edward still felt confident that he’d played well. Well enough to keep Blanky off his back, at least. 

“Drinks on me, lads,” Blanky called as the team dispersed to the changing rooms. He always said it like it was some kind of fresh, new idea. It wasn’t. It was their tradition to go for drinks after, whether it was to celebrate victory or commiserate defeat. 

“Little, you get passenger seat privileges,” Gore said in the car lot. “That save in second was impeccable.” 

Gore’s passenger seat was a coveted treasure. It came with music privileges too, but Edward hardly ever capitalized on that. He could never figure out how to work the Bluetooth right, and besides, Hartnell always had something he wanted to play. 

There was a chaos of conversation in the back seats. Gore drove a minivan. It was always packed full of team members and gear. The back two rows were what Edward imagined being in the fray of warfare was like. Conversation bombs going off everywhere, cheap shots to the ribs when you didn’t answer a question quick enough, Hartnell singing 2000s pop at the top of his lungs. 

At least in the front seat, Edward could breathe a bit. 

“Seatbelts,” Gore called before starting the car. Once they’d pulled out of the lot he glanced to Edward and asked, “Did you finally talk to that figure skater?” 

“What figure skater?” Feigning ignorance was his best defence. Ever since Gore had arrived early to practice to find Edward on the benches, jaw on the floor as he watched the skater, he’d been suspicious. 

It wasn’t the first time Edward’s social life had been a matter of interest for the team. He was always conspicuously silent when the team got to recounting romantic rendezvous. Peglar, one of the alternates on the team, was dating the local sports reporter, John Bridgens. He came to all the games and cheered even when Peglar wasn’t on the ice. It was nice, Edward supposed, but not nice enough to spark envy in his chest.

Edward wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t. His routine didn’t account for time spent chasing after handsome figure skaters, no matter how pretty their eyes were. 

Gore, at least, seemed to have Edward’s best interests at heart. 

“The one you’re always gawking at,” Gore laughed. “Don’t play dumb with me.” 

“We talked.” It was true. He didn’t need to mention how poorly the conversation went. “He seems nice.” 

“He got a name?” 

Edward shrugged. 

The conversation was blissfully dropped the moment they entered the pub. It was loud and chaotic, just as it always was. They’d tried many pubs over the years, but this one was the favourite. It had tables large enough to seat the lot of them, not to mention food cheap enough to satisfy the team after a long match. 

The corner table was already occupied by members of the team when Gore’s group entered. The team had a standing reservation for that table. Not an official reservation, but the kind that came with regular patronage and a penchant for buying more rounds than anyone else in the bar. Blanky hailed them over. 

“That was nothing compared to the time Best took a puck to the jaw,” Peglar was saying. “I thought you’d lost all your teeth.” 

“Just one,” Best said, with a grin that revealed his missing canine. 

“Pilsner or IPA?” Gore asked Edward. 

“IPA for the both of us,” Peglar said, waving Edward to sit next to him.

Edward took the offered seat and fell into the easy conversation of the rest of the team. Gore handed him his beer when he returned to the table, and Edward thanked him with a nod. As he began to reach the final dregs at the bottom of his glass, Gore kicked at his shin under the table and said, “We’re going to start buying you bigger drinks if you always leave after just one.” 

“I didn’t say I was going to leave,” Edward argued. He’d been thinking it, though. He always left after one drink. The knowing look Gore gave him caused guilt to settle in Edward’s stomach. He really ought to make more of an effort to spend time with the team. 

“Oh,” Peglar said, blinking at his phone. “John just texted me. He’s covering some event tomorrow and has extra tickets. Three of them. Any of you free?” 

“Got nothing planned,” Gore said. “Count me in.” 

“I’m free after six,” Collins said with a shrug. “Little, are you in? We can split a cab.” 

Collins lived near Edward. It was a good idea, given Edward was willing to attend. Under the scrutiny of his fellow defenceman and his team captain, Edward found himself saying yes without meaning to. Peglar bumped his shoulder in celebration, Collins tapped his glass to Edward’s mostly empty one. 

“I really should get home though,” Edward said, rubbing his neck. The team cajoled him and called him an old man, but called fond goodbyes as he stood to leave. 

“See you tomorrow, Little!” Gore called. It made Edward feel glad. It was a welcome thing, someone wishing to see more of him. 

Perhaps a good evening out with the team would help clear his mind of a certain figure skater.

* * *

Thomas was no stranger to the sharp pang of nerves before a performance. The flutter in his stomach, the nagging feeling that there was something he was forgetting. He knew he wasn’t, knew he’d practised enough time to nail every move, every expression, every jump and spin and crossover. Still, there was always the anxiety that something would go wrong. 

In a way, he liked the pressure of it. It was an assurance that he was a good skater. Had he felt nothing but blind confidence, he wouldn’t feel any pressure to do better, to _be_ better. 

Thomas knew performers like that. In fact, he was watching one right now, warming up on the ice without a care in the world. Hickey may have been a good skater, in a technical sense, Thomas could give him that, but he couldn’t connect with the audience the way Thomas could. 

Hickey caught Thomas’s eye and said, “Break a leg, eh, Jopson?” 

“You too,” Thomas said. 

Thomas looked away and returned to his stretching. Doubled over, palms pressed to the ice between his feet, he heard Le Vesconte speak. 

“Listen, you better put on one hell of a show tonight. I’m warming them up for you, but if you don’t make me look like a fool then the audience will be sorely disappointed.” 

Le Vesconte didn’t always perform, in fact, he rarely did. Tonight though, he’d been itching for some action. Thomas didn’t know where he pulled these routines from, but it was last minute that he announced he would be opening the gala. “I’ve got a spicy little number up my sleeve,” he’d told Thomas just yesterday. Thomas didn’t doubt that. He doubted it even less when he saw his coach in costume. Black suit, black skates polished to a shine, and bowtie untied, draped debaucherously around his neck. The tinge of grey in his hair only accentuated the appearance, giving him the particular look of a divorcé on the prowl at a cocktail bar. 

“You always look like a fool,” Thomas teased, head still down, stretching. “I hardly need to perform for the audience to know that.” 

“Rude, Thomas. Very rude.” 

“I don’t even need to hear what the boy said to agree with him,” a new voice said. “Dundy, you old dog, what kind of costume is this?” 

Thomas straightened up and caught sight of a man leaning against the side of the rink. He had a round face, a charming smile. Thomas recognized him, but couldn’t place from where. The rink, he thought. Practice. Cheerfully calling out, “ _Early today, eh, Little?_ ” But if he was one of the hockey players, that meant -- 

And there stood Little himself, just a pace behind the smiling man, looking positively frightened. He stared at Thomas. Thomas stared back. 

“Graham,” Le Vesconte said with a laugh. “What are you doing here? Come to watch an old man perform?” 

“I had no idea you were performing, actually. Ended up here on a whim, really. I thought you were coaching now?”

“What, just because I’m coaching now means I can’t skate when I want to?” Le Vesconte asked with a snort.

“Oh, you know what they say, those who can, _do_ , and those who can’t, _teach_.” Gore winked, then looked to Thomas. He seemed to see him for the first time since approaching the rink wall. “This your skater, then? Wait, I know you. You practice at our rink.” 

“Hang on,” Le Vesconte said, looking between the two of them. “You’re not the hockey player that’s been giving Thomas trouble, are you?”

Thomas looked to Little without meaning to. The flush on Little’s cheeks was immediate. He shifted between his feet, eyes still trained on Thomas. _Say something_ , Thomas begged. He wasn’t sure who he wanted to speak, himself or Little. 

“Trouble?” Gore asked. He cast the smallest of glances over his shoulder toward Little. “I hope not.” 

“No trouble,” Thomas said to Gore, finally finding his voice. He addressed the next part to Little. “It’s always nice to have an audience.” 

“Ah, so you _are_ talking about Edward,” Gore said with a laugh, bumping his shoulder against Little. _Edward. His name was Edward._ “Bet he’s finally glad to see you perform for real, he’s watched you practice enough.” 

A bell rang somewhere in the rink. Thomas stiffened. That was the call for the audience to take their seats, and the performers to get to their positions. 

“Better get to your seats,” Le Vesconte said. “Find me after the show? We can catch up.” 

Gore gave a faux salute and turned to leave. Thomas caught Little’s eye one last time. He hadn’t spoken a word the entire exchange, but now his lips were parted as though to say something. Thomas hesitated, giving him an opportunity to find his words. Little wet his lips, then said, “Good luck out there.” 

“Thank you.” Thomas flashed a smile. Then he turned and followed Le Vesconte to the kiss and cry where they would await their turn to perform. 

There were dozens of people in the audience, possibly hundreds, and Thomas nearly laughed with the absurdity of the fact that his thoughts were with only one. Nothing about Edward Little should have charmed Thomas the way it did. He hadn’t been particularly nice, nor had he ever said more than a dozen words to Thomas. And yet, he found himself wishing the lighting had been slightly altered, wishing his view of the audience had been just a bit better so he could find Little in the stands, could watch his reactions, could direct at least one cheeky wink in his direction. 

The announcers called for Henry Le Vesconte to take the ice. 

Thomas took a deep breath and focused his thoughts on his own routine. He would put on a good show tonight, he told himself. Not just for Edward, but for everyone. 

* * *

Tonight was not going the way Edward had hoped. _A nice night out with the guys,_ he’d told himself. _No pressure, no reason to feel so anxious about it all._ The moment they arrived at the venue and Edward saw the words “Bridgeport Figure Skating Club - Gala Event” on the display board, he’d known it was a possibility that he’d see the figure skater. 

_(Thomas_ , he reminded himself. His name was Thomas.)

Seeing him perform was going to be difficult enough, but standing hopelessly beside Gore and coming to the realization that they ran in the same circles was an entirely different monster altogether. 

Collins waved them to their seats. He and Peglar sat with a gap of two seats between them, saving a spot for himself and Gore. 

“Where’ve you been, then?” Collins whispered as they sat down. 

“Saw an old friend,” Gore whispered back. “And Edward ran into a new one.” 

“One of the skaters?” 

“Le Vesconte,” Gore said. “We go way back.” 

The announcers called out Le Vesconte’s name almost as soon as it had left Gore’s lips. Edward squared his shoulders and tried to focus on the rink in front of him. 

Le Vesconte took to the ice, and people were already cheering. Edward didn’t know a thing about how figure skating performances usually went, but he was almost certain most skaters didn’t _strut_ onto the ice the way Le Vesconte did. The music was jazzy, some sultry pop song Edward didn’t know the name of. Le Vesconte knew it though. His movements were perfectly timed, smooth and easy, perfectly in tune with the music. 

He started on his knees at centre ice, before spinning to his feet and gliding in a lazy circle. The lapels of his suit jacket swayed with the movement of his body, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, white shirt tight across his torso. Edward hoped all figure skating performances weren’t this seductive, or else he was in for a long night. 

He’d already seen Thomas’s costume. High waisted black slacks, white tank top exposing the defined muscles of his arms and shoulders, suspenders striping his chest like some kind of 30s gangster. The outfit alone had been enough to make Edward’s mouth run dry. If his performance involved any of the writhing and hip-swaying that Le Vesconte’s did, Edward was fucked. 

Le Vesconte twirled, poised on only one skate, hands on his waist, then sliding up across his chest until they came to a point above his head. He spun so quickly it was enough to make Edward dizzy. The crowd screamed. Gore scoffed, but clapped along with the rest of the audience.

The performance couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, but the anticipation of what came next made it feel an hour to Edward. 

“One more time for Henry Le Vesconte!” The announcer shouted. The applause was thunderous, women squealed, Gore’s voice joined in with the rest of them shouting, “Yeah, Dundy!” 

Le Vesconte bowed, throwing his arms up and waving to the crowd as he took a victory lap around the ice. 

Collins leaned over Edward and asked Gore, “Is he always like that?” 

Gore laughed. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

“That was great,” Peglar said, still clapping. “I had no idea ice skating was like this!” 

Neither did Edward. He’d always thought of it as a mild sport, elegant and refined, like ballet or synchronized swimming. The performance he’d just seen was positively debaucherous. He wondered if he should fake a stomach ache and leave before it got any worse. It wouldn’t be difficult, his stomach was already in knots. 

Before he could make his decision, the announcer called for Thomas Jopson to take the ice, and Edward’s heartbeat quickened. 

Thomas didn’t start from centre ice as Le Vesconte did. When the spotlight found him, he was leaning against the rink wall, hip cocked, a black bowler hat atop his head. The music began, smooth jazz, graceful and calming. Thomas took his hat off and waved it to the audience. People cheered. Edward wasn’t even sure he had a voice any longer. 

He placed the hat back on and took to the ice with a series of spin and backward glides, his strides slow in time to the music. It was smooth and elegant, nothing like the sultry show Le Vesconte had put on. Edward felt as though maybe he had a chance at surviving this after all. 

But then the music changed, modernized with the drop of the bass. Thomas fell to his knees and rose a different performer. The beat was electrifying, bouncing in time to the quickening stride of Thomas’s feet. He rolled his shoulders back, the movement travelling from his feet all the way to the crown of his head, chin up, throat exposed. 

It was a dance as much as a skating routine _._ Thomas’s hips and shoulders jerked and swayed in time to the music. He had rhythm, and grace, and something deliciously alluring about him. It was all too much. Edward felt hot and cold all at once, he wanted to look away but was unable to take his eyes off Thomas. 

Edward had seen the moves before. He’d seen Thomas practice the jumps a dozen times, the quick kick off from the ice, the swirling leap. He’d been in awe of the the dizzying spins, arms tucked close to his chest then stretching over his head as he lifted one leg and bent backward. It was worse now, with the music, the costume, every muscle of his torso on display through that damned white tank top. 

“He’s good,” Gore whispered. “Dundy taught him well.”

The routine ended in a series of impossibly fast spins, Thomas moving from crouched to standing, his entire body arched with the force of the motion. He stopped suddenly just as the music ended, completely frozen. He was smiling, grinning breathlessly. 

Edward was on his feet and clapping before he even knew what he was doing. He was half aware of Gore and Collins standing too, but Edward wasn’t really paying attention to anything going on around him. His eyes were on Thomas, they hadn’t left him for a second. 

The lights in the house went up slightly, enough for Edward to see his fellow audience members cheering for Thomas. People were throwing roses on the ice. Something hot and envious swelled in his chest. He’d captivated all of them. The entire audience was half in love with Thomas, Edward was sure of it. They’d be fools not to be. 

“Holy shit, is that Fitzjames?” Collins asked, gesturing to someone a few rows ahead of them. “With _Crozier?_ ” 

The idea was enough to pull Edward’s gaze to the crowd. Just ahead of them, nearer the ice, were the men that announced for the Leviathan games. Edward had always thought that if they ever met outside the announcer box they’d strangle each other. Never in a million years would he have imagined Fitzjames leaning in, whispering something in Crozier’s ear, and Crozier tipping his head back in a laugh. 

Edward glanced at Collins with a perplexed expression and shrugged. When he looked back to the ice, Thomas’s eyes were on him. There was no denying it. He bowed once again, eyes still fixed on Edward, gaze unbroken as he looked up through his eyelashes. 

Edward clapped and gave him a double thumbs-up, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Thomas’s smile was contagious. Edward wondered if there was anyone strong-willed enough to do anything but beam when Thomas looked at them like that. 

Two more performances followed Thomas’s, but Edward hardly saw them. He watched, eyes trained on the skaters the entire time, but his thoughts were far away. If Edward were a more confident man, forward and bold, he would have snuck from his seat and to the edge of the ice the moment Thomas left it. Would have found him on the sidelines and said, “I’ve never seen anything quite as lovely as you, and I haven’t yet had enough. Please tell me you’ll let me take you for drinks, or dinner, or for an elopement.” 

But Edward was not that man. He never had been. In any case, it was foolish to think a creature as stunning as Thomas Jopson was not already someone else’s beloved. 

As the lights were lifted and the performers took to the rink one final time for more applause and a final bow, Edward didn’t notice anyone else on the ice. Gore climbed to his feet, cheered for Le Vesconte, and then tugged at the sleeve of Edward’s shirt. 

“Come on, let’s go find them,” Gore said. Edward followed. 

“Did you see Crozier and Fitzjames?” Collins asked Peglar as they descended the stairs toward the ice. “Look, over there--”

“What did you think?” Gore asked. 

“I didn’t know skating was so…” Edward gestured in the air aimlessly. He knew the word on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. 

“Yeah,” Gore said with a laugh. “I know what you mean.” 

_Did he?_ Edward had seen the way he looked at Le Vesconte, had noticed his conspicuous silence during the performance. Maybe he did know, after all. 

Collins and Peglar nudged at each other. Peglar stood on tiptoes trying to get a look at Crozier and Fitzjames. Gore stuck a hand in the air and waved. Edward followed his gaze and saw Le Vesconte striding toward them. Thomas was at his side. 

“What a show,” Gore said, clapping Le Vesconte on the shoulder as he approached. “Didn’t think you still had it in you.” 

“You’ve a lot to learn, old boy,” Le Vesconte said. He was still in his costume, but he was wearing shoes now instead of skates. Brightly coloured sneakers, that clashed awfully with his black suit. “Glad you enjoyed it.” 

Thomas stood beside him. He was still in costume too, though his hat was missing. His hair was slightly ruffled, and his cheeks flushed pink from the cold or the exertion. He was holding flowers, bouquets of them. The pops of colour were a beautiful accent to the monochrome of his costume. 

Edward chewed his lip, then sidestepped out from behind Gore to stand in front of Thomas. 

“You performed well,” Edward said, swallowing the hesitation that told him not to speak. No matter what atrocities spilt from his lips it would have been a worse embarrassment knowing he had just stood there and stared without saying a word. “I’ve never seen a figure skating routine before, but yours was the best.” 

“Don’t let Henry hear you say that.” Thomas nodded toward his coach. “But thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”

There was a beat of silence. Edward had never been this close to Thomas before. There was light spilling on his face, illuminating his dark lashes, the sweat across his nose. Green. His eyes were green. 

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Thomas said. “My name’s Thomas. But I guess you already knew that.” 

“I did,” Edward admitted. “Mine’s Edward.” 

There was a flash of a smile, a momentary glimpse of dimples. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Edward.” 

A heavy arm settled around Edward’s shoulder, pulling him roughly against Collins’s chest. “Look,” he hissed. “It _is_ Crozier.” 

Collins directed him toward stands where Fitzjames and Crozier stood talking to one of the female performers. Thomas turned, too. 

“Oh, yes, Francis comes to most of my performances. We’re old friends. Do you know him?” Thomas asked. 

“He’s the commentator, at our matches,” Collins said. “Fitzjames, too.” 

“Ah, I’d forgotten he still does that.” Thomas laughed. Edward’s throat constricted at the sound. It made him want to laugh too, though nothing was particularly funny. “I’m sure he and James are quite the pair when they commentate.” 

“You should come,” Edward said suddenly, shrugging Collins’s arm off his shoulders. “To one of our matches, I mean. Find out for yourself.” 

“I’ve never been to a hockey game,” Thomas said. It wasn’t a no. Edward hoped that at least counted for something. 

“And you’re better off that way,” Le Vesconte interjected. There had been a lull in his conversation with Gore, evidently. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and Le Vesconte jerked a thumb toward Gore. “Especially with these underdogs. How many losses has it been now, four?”

“Well, well,” Gore laughed. “We may be losing, but you’re the one checking our stats.” 

“I keep up,” Le Vesconte said, brushing non-existent dust from the lapel of his suit jacket. “Bridgens reports it all you know?” 

“Maybe we’re just missing a good luck charm,” Gore said. “Next match is Saturday. I can get you both tickets if you’d like.” 

“Hm,” Le Vesconte hummed, noncommittally. 

“I’ll go,” Thomas said. “It sounds fun.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Gore grinned. “I’ll bring the tickets to our next practice. Stick around for a bit at the rink?” 

“Sure,” Thomas said. 

“And drag Dundy with you,” Gore instructed. “God knows he could use a little excitement in his life.” 

“Uncalled for,” Le Vesconte said. 

“Catch you later, old man.” Gore patted Le Vesconte between the shoulder blades. “It was nice to meet you, Thomas. You performed very well.” 

Thomas beamed. 

Gore began to move away from Le Vesconte, stepping toward the exit, and Edward had a moment of panic. He’s spent so much of this afternoon wishing he were somewhere else, somewhere Thomas _wasn’t_ , but now that it came time to leave he didn’t know how to say goodbye. He opened his mouth, then frowned, looking at Thomas. 

“I’m looking forward to seeing you play,” Thomas said. 

“I hope we put on a good show,” Edward said. “See you at the rink.” 

Thomas nodded. Edward smiled. They parted, and as Edward walked to the parking lot between Gore and Collins, his heart felt lighter than it had in years. 

Edward made a deal with himself as he climbed into the backseat of Gore’s van. He would play his hardest at Saturday’s match. He’d try his best for a win, not just for Thomas, but for the team. If he helped lead the Leviathans to victory, he’d ask Thomas out to dinner after the match. It would be a reward, of sorts. Or maybe it would just be that a win would give him the confidence he needed to make the move. 

In any case, he hoped they won. 

And more than that, he hoped Thomas would say yes. 

* * *

As soon as they passed the ticket counter, Thomas realised hockey games were very unlike figure skating exhibitions. For one thing, he was surrounded by a sea of hockey jerseys, most bright red or navy blue, but there were other colours mixed into the fray. Professional teams, Thomas suspected. 

People were already getting loud. Somewhere in the crowd, people were clapping along to what sounded like a bad rendition of _We Will Rock You_ , and Thomas could smell beer and fried foods in the air. Thomas was disoriented by the disarray of it all, but chaotic as it all felt, people seemed happy. Fans walked in pairs or in groups, shouting with one another, heads tossed back in laughter. Thomas caught snippets of their conversations. 

“One more foul like that and he’s off the team, Franklin won’t stand for it.” 

“I’ll put ten quid on it’s Des Voeux that throws the first punch.” 

“They’re a good pair, even if they’ve had a rough few games. Collins always anticipates Little’s backhand passes.” 

This startled Thomas. He turned his head, trying to catch sight of the person who’d said it. There was no telling, there was too much noise and the conversations were all shifting too quickly for Thomas to pinpoint the speaker. He chided himself. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the crowd was talking about Edward. This was his turf, after all. 

Thomas looked up at the large banners along the edge of the rink as he and Le Vesconte walked the aisle toward their seats. They each bore a team sigils. One was a finned sea monster wrapped around a capital L, navy blue and gold. The other was a large crimson S, the bottom section flaring out into a whale tale with a silver wing on the upper hump of the S. 

“Which one’s Edward’s team?” Thomas asked.

“The Leviathans,” Le Vesconte answered. “Blue and gold.” 

They found their seats. Thomas settled into his own, but Le Vesconte hesitated a moment before stripping off his windbreaker and tossing it to Thomas. 

“I’m getting beer first,” Le Vesconte said. “You’ll want one too.” 

“I don’t really drink beer,” Thomas said. 

“When in Rome,” Le Vesconte snorted. “I’ll be back.” 

Thomas waited in his seat, Le Vesconte’s jacket on his knees, and let his eyes flitter through the crowd. He sought out each person wearing a blue and gold jersey. Most of them only bore the logo, but Thomas noticed a few with names. Gore and Irving and Best. He wondered if any of them bore Little’s name. The thought was strange and sat hot in Thomas’s stomach. 

Le Vesconte returned after a few minutes, two plastic cups in his hands, foamy amber liquid nearly spilling over the rim. He stepped over Thomas’s legs to reach his seat, and sank down, saying, “Ridiculous. Do you know how much these cost me?” 

“Rather more than you’d have liked?” Thomas asked, taking the offered cup. Le Vesconte looked slightly comical sitting in the folding chair, his long legs cramped behind the chair in front of him, knees nearly at his chest. 

“Precisely,” Le Vesconte said, sipping his own beer. “And it’s shit beer anyway.” 

“Have you been to hockey games before?” 

“More than I’d like to admit,” Le Vesconte snorted. “You know, you should have just told me your hockey player was handsome.” 

“What?” Thomas sputtered on his beer. 

“Here I was, thinking you were being bothered by some creep watching you practice. I was tempted to call the rink even though you told me not to, just to make sure they weren’t letting in strays. And then he shows up at the gala, and you go positively bashful around him. Christ, Thomas, you could have just said you had a crush.” 

Thomas frowned. He wouldn’t call it a crush, exactly. Edward was handsome, certainly, and there was something reticent about him that made Thomas want to pick him apart, tease smiles onto that pensive face, wash away that melancholy expression that seemed to have made its home on the curve of his brow. That was all it was, though. A curiosity, perhaps. Edward Little was a peculiar object Thomas wanted to turn over in his hands, pick apart, understand. 

“We hardly know each other,” Thomas said after a moment. Le Vesconte rolled his eyes. 

“Didn’t stop him from drooling over you at the gala -- Don’t look at me like that. It’s _true_.” 

Before Thomas could protest he was distracted by movement on the ice. Several players took to the rink, wearing the navy and gold of the Leviathans. Thomas had never seen them in full gear before. He’d seen a helmet here, and a jersey there, but never the full get up. It made them all much larger than they’d appeared at the gala, the pads widening their shoulders by several inches, the skates giving them an illusion of height. With the helmets, Thomas could hardly tell who was who. 

“The jerseys have names on,” Le Vesconte said, as though he’d read Thomas’s mind. “There, your boy is near the goal. Number twelve.” 

Thomas’s gaze flickered between the players, who were circling the ice, tossing a puck between each other with their sticks. The crowd was hooting and hollering, some booing, others yelling out names. 

Thomas found number twelve. He wouldn’t have recognized it as Edward without the name ‘Little’ on the back of his jersey. He seemed much taller, much broader. He moved well on the ice, turning sharply on the skates and batting the puck toward Gore, who passed it off to another player. They were warming up, or else just showing off. 

“The Leviathans take to the rink,” a familiar voice said over the loudspeaker. It was Fitzjames. “We have to wonder what they have in store for us tonight. Down four scrimmages against the Sirens, I’d say they’re due for a win.” 

“Being ‘due’ a win is never enough,” that was Crozier, “It’s about playing hard and scoring goals. Ah, and here come the Sirens.” 

Crimson jerseys spilt out onto the ice, taking up the other half of the rink. They batted their own puck, skating laps behind the net. Thomas watched Edward bat a puck toward one of the Sirens players, who skated with it around his own net before batting it back to Edward. It was like a game of catch. They went back and forth like that a few times, Edward and the Sirens player. Number seventeen it looked like. Thomas thought the name on the jersey was Tozer, but it was hard to make out the letters as quickly as they moved. 

“It looks kind of fun,” Thomas said. 

“It looks fun _now_ ,” Le Vesconte agreed. “But just you wait.” 

Le Vesconte was right. The teams took positions and a referee placed a puck at centre ice. Two of the players faced one another, head to head, and when the clock started everything erupted into chaos. Thomas could hardly keep track of what was happening. Everything moved deliriously fast, players darting across the ice, sticks slamming into the puck, the ice, players’ shins. Thomas tried to follow the puck but lost it nearly every time his gaze settled on it. 

The first time a player got shoulder checked into the wall -- Collins, Thomas thought, but couldn't be sure -- Thomas gasped. Le Vesconte laughed. 

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Thomas asked, somewhat appalled. The man had brushed it off like nothing and was already halfway across the rink before Thomas could even process what had happened. 

“Why do you think they wear all the padding?” Le Vesconte said. “That was nothing.” 

A buzzer rang loud throughout the rink. People cheered. Thomas looked wildly around the ice, unsure of what had happened. 

“Goal for the Leviathans!” Fitzjames shouted. “Scored by team captain Graham Gore and assisted by winger John Irving.” 

“Go, Gore!” Le Vesconte shouted. Thomas had never heard such an unrestrained noise from his coach. It made him laugh. 

“One, zero, for the Leviathans,” Crozier said. 

Thomas found Edward on the ice. He was beside the other team members, clapping Gore on the shoulder and slapping a gloved hand against his helmet. The positions were reset, and the clock began its countdown again. 

It wasn’t easy for Thomas to keep his eyes on Edward. The positions changed so quickly, and he was never in one spot for long, but Thomas found his best technique was to watch Edward rather than the puck. When he watched the puck, he lost sight of the players. It was easier to just keep his eyes on Edward. The announcers keyed him in on the major plays anyway, and Le Vesconte could be counted on to make Thomas keenly aware anytime Gore scored. He shouted every time. 

Edward mostly stayed near centre ice, acting as a backup anytime the puck was shot away from the goal and into the neutral zone. When it came too close to their goal, he tried to keep players away, tried to keep the other team from scoring. He was quick, darting forward to snatch the puck the closer it came to scoring a goal. Thomas knew it must have taken a sharp eye to predict the play before it was even made, and no small amount of skill to put himself between the puck and the goal. 

When people got too close, Edward threw himself against them, shoulders colliding roughly with the other players and sending them back. Every time Edward slammed against another player, Thomas felt his own bones rattle in sympathy. 

The Leviathans were up by two when the first scrap broke out. The Sirens were encroaching on the goal, and most of the players were wrapped up in a gridlock before the net. The Sirens shot for the goal, and it was deflected around the back of the net. As Edward went after it, a Sirens player knocked directly into him, slamming into him from behind. Edward’s chest hit the wall first, his chin knocked back with the force of the blow. 

Thomas gasped, his fingers wrapped around Le Vesconte’s forearm. 

Edward fell to the ice. 

After that everything was a complete muddle of players. The Sirens player was swarmed upon by two Leviathans, who pinned him to the wall where Edward had hit. More Sirens players joined the fray, and Thomas could no longer see Edward on the ice. Thomas’s panic grew more acute with every second Edward didn’t resurface. 

The crowd was going wild. Sounds of displeasure and excitement echoed through the stadium. 

Edward was surrounded by shoving shoulders, flying skates. Thomas thought of the blades, razor sharp and moving around him. Thomas was on his feet. He felt like something needed to happen before it got worse. Everyone needed to stop, they needed to get him off the ice. 

“Why is nobody helping him?” Thomas fretted, turning to look at Le Vesconte. 

Le Vesconte reached for Thomas’s sleeve and tugged him toward his seat. 

“What did you think was going to happen?” Le Vesconte asked. “This is _hockey_.” 

Thomas collapsed back into his chair. He ran his fingers through his hair. 

The referees were breaking up the fight. One of them, a woman by the looks of her, shoved Tozer back, shoulders pinned to the wall. Thomas watched Gore go down on his knees, and as the crowd dispersed Thomas could see Edward flat on his back on the ice. It was only a glimpse. He was surrounded by Leviathan players as soon as the Sirens were far enough away. 

“Nasty hit from Sirens centre Solomon Tozer,” Fitzjames said. “Looked like it was Leviathans defenceman Edward Little down on the ice.” 

“Rough luck of it,” Crozier agreed. “Referees are going to need a minute to make a call on that one.” 

“Looks like he’s getting up though,” Fitzjames said. “Good sign.” 

Thomas watched as Gore pulled Edward to his feet, keeping one hand on his back as they made their way off the ice. The other two helping -- Irving and Best -- skated alongside them, within arm’s reach, as though to catch Edward should he collapse. 

One of the referees skated to centre ice and made motions with her arms, saying through the microphone, “Two-minute penalty, Sirens.” 

“A penalty?” Thomas asked, looking wildly to Le Vesconte. “Shouldn’t that guy be _out_?” 

Le Vesconte laughed. 

“ _That’s hockey,_ ” he repeated. “Thomas, you knew it was a violent sport.” 

“He could have died out there. All those blades... Do you think he’s alright?”

Le Vesconte peered at the ice, one eyebrow raised. He tipped his head back and forth in consideration. 

“He was conscious enough to skate off the ice, that’s a good sign. No blood. They sent in his alternate though, so that probably means he’s out. Broken ankle maybe? Almost certainly a concussion.” 

He said it so nonchalantly. It was all routine. Thomas looked around the stadium and saw the crowd settling down, eyes back on the ice where play had resumed. It _was_ all routine, Thomas realised. This was just how the sport was. Everyone had moved on, Gore and the rest of the Leviathans were back on the rink, continuing the game. 

Edward was out. 

The game went on. 

Thomas took a steadying breath and finished the rest of his beer. Le Vesconte was watching him, a knowing smirk on his face. 

“I’m going for another one,” Thomas said, holding up his empty cup. As he made his way toward the concessions, Thomas heard bits of conversation. 

“What a hit, did you see him fall?”

“Hit his chin it looked like. Bad luck of it.” 

“Tozer hardly touched him, that foul was bullshit.” 

This was part of the entertainment value, Thomas told himself. This was why people went crazy for hockey. It was violent and unpredictable and chaotic. People got hurt all the time, Thomas _knew_ that. 

What he didn’t know was why worry and anxiety had settled so deeply in his stomach. 

_You’d feel like this if anyone got hurt,_ he told himself. 

It was a half-truth. Thomas knew that. 

The rest of the game passed differently. Without Edward to keep his gaze, his attention flittered between players, the puck, the goals. He didn’t know what to watch, and he found he didn’t have the focus for it anymore. Thomas argued with himself, fluctuating between _he’s probably fine_ , to _what if the injury is serious?_ to _it’s his own damn fault for playing the game in the first place_. 

It came as a surprise when the crowd began chanting _Le-vi-a-thans_ and Thomas looked to the ice to find a sea of navy blue, Leviathans players clapping each other on the shoulders, slapping each other’s helmets. 

“Go Leviathans!” Le Vesconte shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. 

“It’s over?” Thomas shouted to Le Vesconte, who only nodded, and tipped his head toward the countdown clock which read zero. The score was four to one, Leviathans with the win. 

Thomas clapped because he felt compelled to. Le Vesconte whooped and hollered. Thomas leaned into him to yell, “Can we talk to the team?” 

“Sometimes,” Le Vesconte yelled back, then looked Thomas up and down. “Oh, for Hell’s sake. Come on then.” 

Thomas trailed behind Le Vesconte as they fought their way through the crowds, toward the edge of the rink, through people cheering or booing. 

“Gore!” Le Vesconte shouted onto the ice, hands cupped around his mouth again. “Hey! Gore!” 

Gore turned on the ice and looked toward Le Vesconte. Thomas was surprised he heard him, but then again, familiar voices could cut through pandemonium like a knife through butter. Gore skated to the edge, grinning, face flushed. They were separated by a pane of glass. 

“Is Little okay?” Le Vesconte asked. 

“He’s okay,” Gore shouted. “He’s being treated, but he’s okay!” 

“Treated where?” Thomas asked. 

“Warrington Community!” 

Warrington Community. The _hospital_. 

People were calling Gore’s name, his team members, other audience members. He nodded toward Le Vesconte and Thomas, then skated back to his team. They’d won. 

They were celebrating. 

_Edward Little was in hospital_.

* * *

Artwork by the wonderful Andro! [Go show the post some love on Tumblr](https://yprkaz.tumblr.com/post/645758056858288129/heyo-first-chapter-of-the-figure-skaterjopson-and)! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a look at the skating routines that inspired this gala, here is the [skate inspo for Jopson's routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4lQ3d3T3r8&t=6067s&ab_channel=SkatingISU), and here is [Dundy's 'spicy little number'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MVF0aL7bq4&ab_channel=skating4us).
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr!](https://red-0ak-tree.tumblr.com/)


	2. Of Siblings and Slings

Edward was  _ miserable.  _

The broken collarbone and minor concussion contributed to his misery, certainly, but mostly the humiliation of it all was what pained him. He’d broken bones before. He’d had concussions, too. They were rather routine in hockey. He’d never received them in front of the man he was hoping to impress, however. That made matters far worse. 

It had all been going so well. They were winning. Edward had been spectacular out there, more on his game than he’d been in months. He could taste victory on his tongue.  _ He was going to ask Thomas to dinner.  _

The conversation would have been so sweet. High on the euphoria of a win, satisfied in his very bones, he would have found Thomas and shouted it over the crowd if he needed to.  _ Will you go out with me?  _

Solomon fucking Tozer. 

He’d seen the hit coming. The asshole hadn’t even tried to slow down. Edward tried to evade, but it wasn’t enough. It was all the worse knowing he was hit from behind. Edward would get him back for that. Next game. 

Well, after he healed. The doctor had been very clear he wasn’t allowed back on the ice for six weeks.  _ Minimum.  _

That hurt, too. Edward lived for the ice. He’d never been off it that long before, not since he was a kid, certainly. 

Edward pressed his head back into the uncomfortable hospital pillow and groaned. 

Gore and Blanky came to visit him that night, after the match. 

“Great skating out there, Edward,” Blanky said, sitting in the chair beside the bed. Gore stood near the foot, grinning. 

“Did we win?” Edward asked. 

“Four to one, lad,” Blanky confirmed. 

“Thank fuck,” Edward sighed, falling back against the pillows. The movement jostled his shoulders and he winced at the pain that scattered through his chest. “At least there’s that.” 

“How long will you be out?” Gore asked. 

“Six weeks,” Edward said, closing his eyes. “At a minimum.” 

“Well, there’s one upside here,” Gore said. 

“If you say Peglar played better than I did I’ll kick you,” Edward warned, peeling one eye open to scowl at Gore. The look on his captain’s face was mischievous. Edward didn’t like it. 

“Your skater came looking for you. Seemed quite beside himself.” 

That was not an upside in Edward’s opinion. He slammed his eye back shut and groaned again. 

He’d been half-hoping Thomas had decided not to come, had missed the ordeal entirely. Confirmation that he’d seen it all and been worried made guilt burn hot on Edward’s face. 

Though, there was a bit of hope in it, too. 

He’d asked after Edward. He hadn’t just turned away in disgust and left. That was something, at least. 

“Are they keeping you overnight?” Gore asked. 

“Yes. For the concussion.” 

“Release tomorrow? I can come pick you up,” Gore offered. 

“That’d be great.” 

“You’ll be on your feet in no time, lad,” Blanky said, patting Edward’s shin. Edward heard him stand, and opened his eyes again to look at his team members. 

“Go on then. I’m sure you want to celebrate,” Edward said. “Have a drink for me.” 

“But only one, right?” Gore teased. “See you later, Little.” 

* * *

Thomas was waiting the moment Gore entered the rink the following Tuesday. By the expression on Gore’s face, he seemed to have expected it. 

“Some match, huh?” Gore asked when he walked in and spotted Thomas. 

Thomas had been skating lazy circles as he waited for one of the team to arrive. He turned to the doorway when he heard footsteps. 

He reminded himself to be calm about this interaction as he skated to the wall toward Gore. He didn’t want to overwhelm him with questions or concern for Edward, but it was going to be difficult. Thomas had spent three days ruminating over what  _ in the hospital _ could mean for a hockey player. He’d even Googled it. Hockey injuries ranged from a broken ankle to a broken neck. 

“Congratulations on your win,” Thomas said. 

“Bit different from figure skating, I reckon,” Gore laughed. He dropped his duffle bag onto a nearby bench before continuing. “Edward’s okay.” 

Relief washed over Thomas, but Gore wasn’t finished. 

“Just a broken collarbone. Six weeks off the ice, you know, but better than it could be. He’ll skate again and everything.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” A broken collarbone sounded rather bad to Thomas. Awful, in fact. Thomas blinked. “Well, I guess it’s good it wasn’t worse.”

“It’s not always that bad, you know? Rotten luck that Edward took the fall like he did.” Gore leaned his elbows against the wall, facing Thomas on the ice. “He’ll bounce back. I think the time off the ice is going to be the worst of it for him.” 

A flare of frustration rose in Thomas. He couldn’t pinpoint what caused it. The offhand way Gore talked about the injury, or the fact that six weeks off the ice meant six weeks before Thomas could see Edward again. If they weren’t crossing paths at the rink for practice, they had no reason to speak to one another. 

“Does he live alone?” Thomas asked suddenly. A spasm of amusement passed over Gore’s face. “It’s only, I know how difficult sternum injuries can be.”

“He does,” Gore said. “Some of the guys and I will be stopping in on him, groceries and all that.” 

“Ah.” Thomas nodded. “Good.” 

That felt disappointing too, in the part of Thomas that had the words,  _ Because I’d be happy to help, _ poised on the tip of his tongue. 

“But I’m sure he’ll get bored with just us. You should give him a call.” 

Thomas chewed his lip, watching Gore. He seemed sincere. In fact, the look on his cheery face was almost encouraging. 

“Oh, that’s okay,” Thomas said. “I don’t have a way to contact him anyway.” 

“I can change that,” Gore laughed, drawing his phone from his pocket and nodding to it significantly. “He’d like to hear from you, I’m sure.”

_ Oh, what the hell.  _

“My phone’s in my bag,” Thomas said and stepped off the ice. 

* * *

It had only been three days and television was already unbearable, his sofa was uncomfortable from all the time he’d spent on it, and his routine was completely broken. He’d taken time away from the office in order to rest as much as possible, opting to work remotely from his laptop when he needed to. It was all emails and pdfs anyway. Typing was difficult one-handed, but he could still manage even with his right arm in the sling.

Other tasks were more difficult. It turned out, pretty much any motion he wanted to do involved moving his collarbone. Even the movements not involving the arm in the sling. Evidently, reaching for the remote wrong or scratching his nose too quickly was enough to send a spark of pain through his entire chest. 

Edward also wasn’t pleased with the fact that Gore had posted about his injury on social media. The post on the team’s Instagram informed their minor following that Peglar would be Edward’s substitute while he was out. It was nothing ground-breaking, but it did award Edward with a call from his twin sister, Jane. She had a few sharp words for him, mostly along the lines of, “What do you mean you thought it wasn’t important enough to call about? A broken collarbone?  _ Christ _ , Ned.” 

“It’ll heal fine,” Edward protested. “Only six weeks.” 

“Well, do you at least have someone helping you out? That sounds miserable.” 

“Collins drops off groceries. It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“I can’t believe you. Do you want me to come out there?” 

“It’s fine, really.” 

Jane sighed. Edward knew she was pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back tonight, I’m not done talking about this. Don’t hurt yourself in the meantime.” 

“Ha-ha,” Edward huffed. 

That was three hours ago. When his phone rang for the second time that afternoon Edward was staring with a glazed expression at a reality tv programme. He was startled out of his reverie by the sound and answered it without checking the caller ID. 

“What?” 

It would have been a typical greeting between himself and Jane, but to Edward’s horror, it was not his sister that responded. 

“Is this Edward?” 

He knew that voice. 

“Oh, Christ,” Edward choked. “Sorry, I was-- There was a call from-- Uh, somebody else. Yes. Yes, this is Edward.” 

Thomas laughed then. Edward definitely knew that sound. He’d only heard it once before, but he very much hoped he’d hear it again. 

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” Thomas laughed. “This is Thomas, by the way. Jopson.” 

“I know,” Edward said. “You’re not bothering me.” 

“Graham gave me your number, I hope that’s okay. I just wanted to--”

“That’s fine, I don’t--” Edward halted, realizing he’d just interrupted Thomas. “Sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s okay. I just wanted to check-in. I heard you’d been injured. I only meant to--” 

“That was nice of you, but you didn’t need to--” Edward paused again. Phone conversations were impossible. He was bad at reading people on the best of days, but without seeing Thomas’s expression or the part in his lips when he was about to speak Edward felt entirely unable to gauge the flow of the conversation. Perhaps it was just better to be quiet. 

Thomas laughed again. A melodic rumble in his chest. He’d be smiling, Edward thought. Unfortunate to miss that. He liked the sight of Thomas’s smile very much. 

“Me first.” There was still laughter in his voice. Edward didn’t respond, and Thomas continued after a beat. “I only meant to offer my condolences. I hope that the injury isn’t too bad. Broken collarbone, Graham said. I called because I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to text. You’ll be wearing a sling, right?” 

Edward could hardly text even  _ without  _ one arm in a sling. Thomas’s thoughtfulness didn’t go unnoticed. In fact, it burned hot on his face and caused him to lose his ability to speak for a moment. 

“Yes,” Edward said finally. “It isn’t bad. Doesn’t hurt much. Thank you, for calling, and for thinking of me.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” There was a hint of challenge in Thomas’s voice. Edward liked that. Quite a lot. “I broke two ribs a while back and it even hurt to sleep. I only mean to say, if you need help with anything, I’m happy to be of assistance.” 

The offer was far too tempting and far too impossible for Edward to consider. He chose to ignore it entirely. 

“Two ribs?” Edward asked. “That sounds tough. How’d you manage that?” 

“Bad fall on the ice,” Thomas said. “Not so bad as yours, though. I was glad to hear your injury wasn’t worse, in truth. It looked bad from where I was at.” 

“I hope the game was okay for you overall.” 

“Interesting, to say the least. You played well, until the uh, incident, anyway. Do people always cheer like that for a fight? I swear, I thought the game would end right then but it just kept going. You won, by the way. I’m sure you know that already.” 

“I’m glad of that at least. We haven’t been doing so well recently. Just wish I could have actually been there for it.” Edward chuckled nervously. “I heard it was a good scrap. I don’t remember any of it.” 

“ _ A good scrap _ ?” Thomas repeated, incredulously. “You hockey boys are really something, you know?” 

“We’ve got to give the fans what they want. My mother used to say that they should host hockey matches in the Roman colosseum. People come for the sport, but stay for the blood.” 

Thomas laughed again, louder this time, with the hint of a snort at the end. 

“Oh dear, I’m getting looks on the train,” Thomas said, still chuckling. “Your mother sounds like a smart woman. Oh, I’m nearly at my stop. I’ve got to go. But listen, please let me know if you need anything? It really would be no trouble to help with groceries or, well, whatever you might need.” 

_ You could laugh again _ , Edward thought.  _ I rather think the best I’ve felt since the injury was hearing you laugh.  _

“Thank you, truly. That’s very generous of you. I’ll let you know if there’s anything.” 

“Don’t just say that and then not call,” Thomas warned. “Believe me, I know what a pain an injury like that can be.”

“I won’t.” 

“Good. Well, thank you for entertaining me on my commute. I’ll see you around?” 

“I hope so,” Edward said. “Thank you again for the call.” 

“My pleasure. Have a good night.” 

“Cheers.” 

Edward held the phone long after the line went dead. He felt frozen somehow, trapped by the surrealism of the entire event. If he didn’t know better he would have thought it all a dream. He’d already resigned himself to the disappointing fact that he wouldn’t see or hear from Thomas again until he was back at the rink. Even then it would have been a nod and a passing conversation about the weather, the ice, the rink. 

Never could he have predicted this. Thomas had sought him out, gotten his number from Gore, called and chatted with him while he was on the train. He’d  _ laughed.  _

He’d offered to help, offered to involve himself in Edward’s life more than was asked of him, more than was ever expected of him. 

It was a lot to process.

* * *

Thomas thought about the call a lot over the next two days. It was such a silly thing, to think of how improved his commute had been with Edward on the other end of the line. He’d hesitated to make the call at all. It was quite imposing, in truth. Edward hadn’t given Thomas his number himself, and he hadn’t wanted to invade Edward’s privacy. His thumb had frozen over the call button half a dozen times before he finally took the plunge. 

And how rewarding it had been. 

Edward was hesitant on the phone, so obviously nervous about talking over Thomas, interrupting him, possibly offending him. It was endearing. Not to mention, it was the most Thomas had ever heard the other man talk. He had a nice voice. Thomas wished he would talk more, wished Edward was as loud as some of his teammates. Thomas would have welcomed that voice.

He was a good distraction, too. Train rides were usually Thomas’s time to inwardly panic about his routine, to worry over his schedule, and berate himself for whatever Le Vesconte may have criticized him for that week, a cheated double Lutz or lack of poise on his cross strokes. It was better talking to Edward, having someone else to worry over, to pick apart and examine. 

Thomas was very good at picking people apart. He was observant. He could read between the lines of what people said, and what they meant. 

_ Thank you, for calling, and for thinking of me. _

There had been something horribly earnest in Edward’s voice when he said it. Surely Thomas hadn’t been the only one to call and ask after his wellbeing. There were his team members, for a start. Family, friends, another man or woman just as infatuated with Edward as Thomas was. 

Even if there were, he’d still thanked Thomas. Still welcomed the attention of the call, had poked and prodded at the conversation so as not to let it fall silent. He hadn’t rushed off the phone the moment he realised who was calling. 

He’d liked talking to Thomas. 

It was that thought that drove Thomas to dial the number again the following Thursday as he waited for the bus to collect him from the rink. 

“Hi,” Thomas greeted as soon as Edward answered. “I hope I’m not bothering you. I was just waiting for the bus, and thought I would check-in.” 

“You’re not bothering me,” Edward said. “Did you just get done with practice?” 

“I did. I’m waiting near the rink now. I think I see one of your teammates. What’s the name of the dark-haired one, again? The one who plays the same position as you.” 

“Henry Collins. He’s our other defenceman. How did practice go for you?” 

Thomas didn’t miss Edward’s quick deflection at the mention of his team. It was a sore subject, surely. He wanted to be there with them. 

“Good. Or, as good as it ever does. My ankles are killing me, though. I just can’t seem to get my rotation right on my double Lutz. Le Vesconte is going to have a fit when he sees it on Sunday. We’ve been working on it for weeks now.” 

“You’ll get it.”

“I sure hope so.” Thomas smiled. Edward’s assurance was flattering, if not misplaced. He doubted Edward could tell an under rotation if he saw it, but it was the thought that counted. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear about my skating. How are you feeling?” 

“Fine,” Edward said, dismissively. “And actually, I do want to hear about your skating. What’s a double Lutz?” 

“Oh,” Thomas chuckled, surprised. “It’s a jump. Double means you spin twice in the air. It’s hard to get right, I’ve always struggled with them. They score well in competition, and since I’m no good at Axel jumps, the double Lutz is my best chance at winning.”

“I don’t know how you do any of it, honestly. The things you do on the ice…” 

“I’m sure you’d be better at it than you think. You already have command of the ice, with hockey. It’s just about applying a different physicality to it.” 

“Someday you can try to teach me, and I’ll prove how wrong you are about that.” 

Thomas laughed. He was certain that wasn’t true. He’d seen Edward on the ice. He moved with sharpness, with precision. It took remarkable balance and strength to play a game as quick as hockey on skates. In truth, Edward had the build of a figure skater, too. Beneath the pads he had slim shoulders, a narrow waist. 

Still shaking with a tremor of laughter, Thomas glanced down the road and saw the bus approaching. 

“We’ll see about that,” Thomas said. “Listen, I was just on my way to the shops. Do you need anything? I can bring it by, I’m free most of the evening.” 

“Oh,” Edward said, sounding thrown off-kilter. “No, no, that’s okay.” 

“Have you eaten yet?” Thomas fumbled in his pocket for his bus card, phone pinned to his ear by his shoulder. 

“I ate, uh, earlier?” It was a question. That wouldn’t do. 

“Hang on.” Thomas boarded the bus, settled in his seat, then said firmly, “I make a good lemon chicken if you’d like? It’s quick and easy, but if there’s something else you’d rather have I’m open for suggestions.” 

Edward was quiet for a long moment before spluttering out, “Are you-- Are you offering to  _ cook  _ for me?” 

“If you already had plans I don’t want to impose.”

“I didn’t,” Edward said, then quickly followed with, “But you don’t have to do that.” 

“What if I say I want to?” Thomas smirked as he said it. He could practically picture the distraught expression on Edward’s face. “Do you have olive oil?” 

A beat of hesitation, then, “Yes.”

“Seasonings? A baking dish?” Thomas was already fishing in his bag for a pen, and the notepad he always carried. 

“...Yes.” 

“Good. Okay, what’s your address?” 

“Thomas, honestly, you don’t have to do this. I can have Gore bring something by. Really, you don’t want to see what a sorry state my house is in right now. And I’m not any fun anyway, I’ve practically been living on the sofa--” 

“Hm, it almost sounds like you have a sternum injury and could use the help. Is that what I’m hearing right now?” 

Edward made a noise halfway between a laugh and a gasp.  _ Checkmate.  _

“Address, please.” 

Edward gave it. Thomas thanked him primly and hung up the call. 

It felt good to have something to look forward to with his evening besides returning to the monotony of his empty flat. There was a self-satisfied pleasure in it, too. Thomas liked helping people, he liked feeling needed. 

And if feeling needed by Edward Little tasted just a smidge sweeter, well, that was a matter for a different day. 

* * *

After his first call with Thomas had ended, Edward had felt frozen by the elation of it all. The promise of a friendship between them, if not something more. The assurance of Thomas’s interest in him, if not mirror to Edward’s own then at very least a fluttering thing, enough to compel him to find a way of contacting Edward even without the rink between them. 

He’d felt discomposed in the most hopeful of ways. 

Now, Edward felt positively panicked. 

This was the  _ last  _ possible scenario in which he’d imagined Thomas ever coming to his house. It should have been Edward doing the cooking, for one thing. He wasn’t very skilled at it, but he would have practised before bringing Thomas over for dinner. There would have been wine. The kitchen would have been spotless. He’d have been dressed in something more refined than sweatpants, for Hell’s sake. 

Edward was thankful for the fact that he’d at least showered that morning. 

His flat was relatively clean but cluttered in a way Edward was uncomfortable with. Magazines and discarded novels were strewn on the coffee table, his throw blanket askew on the back of the couch. Empty glasses and water bottles rested on the end tables. The floors were unswept. 

Waiting for Thomas to arrive was a special kind of torture. The anxious anticipation of having Thomas in his flat mixed with something far sweeter, something like excitement. Edward did what he could to tidy up, straightening the throw pillows and organizing the books into a neater pile on the table, but it was all in vain. The knock at the door still came too soon. 

Edward answered the door with a greeting on his tongue, something kind and pleasant, that hopefully distracted from the absolute chaos of his thoughts. That was in vain, too. Thomas was already talking before the door was fully open. 

“I hope you have brown sugar. I forgot to ask. Table sugar will do, if not.” 

Edward blinked at him. Thomas stepped over the threshold as though he’d been there a dozen times before. In his arms was a brown paper bag, filled to the brim. He was wearing a brown wool coat, his cheeks tinged pink from the chilly spring air. 

“I don’t know,” Edward said. “I might.” 

“I’ll check. Hi, by the way. Oh, your flat is very charming.” 

“It’s kind of a mess.” Edward closed the door behind Thomas and following him into the kitchen. Thomas traversed the flat easily, moving through the living room and into the open kitchen without any hesitation. “I’m sorry, I would have cleaned up, but--” 

“It’s fine, really.” Thomas began unpacking ingredients from the paper bag. Bright lemons, a head of garlic, chicken breasts. “Really, it’s a beautiful house.” 

Edward looked around. He’d never thought of his flat as ‘beautiful’ before. It was just his house. He liked it well enough, he supposed. The colours were muted, grey laminate floors, a deep blue sofa, white walls. The kitchen at least had modern appliances, for all Edward ever used them. He didn’t cook much. A few staples here and there, but it was only him here alone. Not much motivation to cook if there was no one to share it with. 

“Do you want to give me a tour, or should I just start opening drawers?” Thomas asked. 

Edward shifted his weight between his feet and gestured with his free hand. 

“Open whatever drawers you want.” 

“Wonderful.” Thomas did. He opened drawers, cupboards, the fridge. Assessing the situation, mapping out Edward’s kitchen. It was all very bizarre. “You should sit down.” 

“I can help,” Edward protested. Then, once again for good measure, said, “You really don’t have to cook for me.” 

“I do this for a living, you know? Not cook exactly, but sometimes it involves that. I’m a caregiver. I go to people’s houses, help them with their housework, clean, prepare meals, that sort of thing.” 

“I didn’t know that." Edward hardly knew anything about Thomas other than that he looked like a dream on the ice. 

Thomas shot Edward a glance, a quirk to his lips that plainly said,  _ Well, you wouldn’t have, you never asked.  _ Kitchen fully assessed, Thomas removed his coat and draped it over the back of one of the chairs near the kitchen. Edward didn’t have a full dining table, just a small four-seater with a glass tabletop. As Thomas pulled out the chair to hang his coat on it, he gestured toward the seat. 

“Please sit. Honestly. You should be resting.” 

Edward lowered himself into the chair, angled so he could still see Thomas in the kitchen. 

“How did you get into caretaking?” 

“My mother.” Thomas had a faint smile on his face as he spoke, just the tiniest upturn of the lips. He pulled a cutting board from the cupboard and set to work preparing the chicken. “She was ill when I was young, and I found myself a glad hand at helping her. The routine kind of stuck after that. I’m rather good with people, and it’s a rewarding career, even if it’s a bit difficult at times. I work with the sick and elderly, mostly. I’m sure you can imagine, there are good days and not so good days.” 

“You like helping people.” It wasn’t a question, just an observation Edward was busy filing away in his mind. 

“I do. I always have.” 

“That’s good of you. I don’t help people at my job. It’s all spreadsheets and managerial meetings.” 

“What do you do?” 

“I’m an account manager.” Edward couldn’t hide the frown that passed over his face as he talked about it. “For a shipping logistics company.” 

Thomas paused, knife in hand, and glanced at Edward. There was a strange expression of amusement on his face. 

“You work in an office?” 

“Yes. But these days I work from my sofa.” 

Thomas laughed. He pressed the back of his wrist to his lips to smother the sound. Edward found himself smiling, though he wasn’t sure what the joke was. 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas chuckled. “It’s just-- You work in some fancy office, and then play hockey in your free time? What do your coworkers think when you come in with all these bruises and injuries?” 

“They probably think I’m in some secret fight club. Or that I have an abusive spouse.” 

“Oh dear.” Thomas’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Why don’t you just tell them you play hockey?” 

“They’d all want free tickets.” Edward tried to shrug but winced when his shoulder reminded him of his injury. In truth, Edward didn’t tell his coworkers about his hobbies because he hardly spoke to them at all. He took his lunch breaks by himself, he kept to his office, he talked to them when it was required. The water cooler was the worst of it. It was always,  _ Lovely day,  _ and  _ Bit rainy, isn’t it?  _

“Ah, I see, it’s your secret identity. Understood.” Thomas winked at him, then turned toward the fridge and pulled it open. He paused a moment after shutting it, a stick of butter in hand, one finger outstretched toward a photo pinned to the freezer. “Is this you?” 

Edward knew the photo he was pointing to. He was probably eight in it, posing beside Jane. It was the first year they played on their youth teams. Edward was drowning in his first set of hockey pads. Jane wore her football cleats. 

“Me and my twin sister, yeah. Jane.” 

Thomas smiled at the photo. 

“You’ve played a long time.” 

“Yes,” Edward agreed. “Most of my life.” 

Thomas took a long moment before dragging himself away from the photo and back to the counter. There was still a small quirk to his lips, a half-smile that Edward couldn’t identify as anything other than fond. 

“Are you close with your sister?” 

“We used to be closer before she got married. She lives in London now, with her family. We still talk, though.” 

“That’s good,” Thomas said. “My brother and I aren’t close. He’s seven years younger than me. We never had the opportunity to grow up together like you and your sister. I should have liked a twin growing up. Though my mother wouldn’t have cared for it, I’m sure.” 

It was a strange thing, having Thomas in his kitchen. Edward answered questions about his family, told stories of his and Jane’s adventures as children, and all the while he watched Thomas flutter about the kitchen, slicing lemons and fluffing rice with the same elegance as he did anything else. He kept the conversation alive and light, filling Edward with more warmth than he’d felt in a long time. It felt  _ right  _ somehow. Domestic and intimate in a way Edward hadn’t dreamed of sharing with Thomas, not so soon into their acquaintance. 

Circumstance made fools of everyone, Edward supposed. He hadn’t anticipated getting injured, but then again he hadn’t anticipated Thomas’s willingness to help, or the look of contentment on his face as he did so. 

“Ta-da,” Thomas sang when he removed the chicken from the oven and set it on a hot pad to cool. “Dinner is served.” 

“You’re staying, right?” Edward asked, suddenly hesitant. “To eat?” 

“I’d thought to.” Thomas tipped his head to one side. “If that’s okay?” 

“Of course.” Edward moved to stand. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but it felt wrong for Thomas to serve him at his own table. 

“Don’t,” Thomas warned. “You stay there.” 

Edward lowered himself back into the chair, properly chastised. Thomas brought the food to the table, and they sat across from one another. The food was good, piping hot and perfectly seasoned. It made Edward feel ashamed of anything he hypothetically would have served Thomas had this interaction gone according to his fantasies. 

Not to mention it was a much better meal than he’d eaten in days. Gore brought by takeout sometimes, but other than that Edward had survived on microwave meals and whatever else he could find. Home-cooked meals were a luxury he didn’t have often. 

“This feels weird,” Edward admitted after a few minutes. “I feel like I should be the one cooking for you.” 

“Why?”

“We’re in my house?” 

“You can cook for me in my flat someday, then. Repay the favour.” 

“Deal.” Edward chuckled. The expression on Thomas’s face was teasing, almost. There was a glint in his light eyes, and the smile on his face revealed his dimples. Edward thought he could stare at that face all evening, and well into tomorrow. 

“Speaking of which,” Thomas said. “It was really rather easy for me to get here after practice. It’s a straight shot from the rink. I can come by Tuesdays and Thursdays if you’d like. Sundays I also practice at the rink and could come by after. At least until your sling is off.” 

“You don’t--” 

“I think we’ve established that I don’t  _ have  _ to do anything. But I’d like to if you’d let me.” 

Edward didn’t know what to say to that. Of course he’d  _ let  _ Thomas do anything he wanted. He could come into Edward’s house and say he was staying forever and Edward wouldn’t be able to say anything but  _ yes.  _

“If it’s really no trouble,” Edward said finally. “Then I think I’d like that. You’re a good cook.” 

“Why thank you.” Thomas beamed. 

Thomas had work that night, but he stayed a bit longer to tidy the kitchen and do the washing up, before reminding Edward on no uncertain terms that he would see him on Sunday. Edward walked him to the door, gratitude spilling from his lips. Thomas only smiled. 

The flat was emptier after Thomas was gone. It felt altogether too quiet. A silly thought, really, since Edward had been in his flat alone more times than he’d ever been there with anyone else. 

Edward settled onto the couch, turned on the tv, and tried to fill the house with warm sounds, bright and colorful and charming. It didn’t have the same effect as the sound of Thomas’s laughter, echoing in his kitchen, settling into the very floorboards, washing over Edward and bewitching him until that sound was all he heard. 

* * *

Visiting Edward was quite unlike visiting his patients. Thomas was used to being told what to do, to being beset with requests from the moment he stepped through the threshold. The same was not so with Edward. He didn’t ask a single thing of Thomas, more often than not he just stood there with that helpless, distressed expression on his face. 

Thomas was good at reading people. He could feel the anxiety emanating from Edward the moment he stepped foot in the house. It was palatable, visible in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other like a nervous tick. 

Thomas did what he could to ease it. He tried not to let the conversations falter, tried to fill the silences with a question or an errant comment. It worked, for the most part. 

Edward was not forthcoming with what he needed, but luckily Thomas was good at reading that in people, too. With his arm still in the sling, and too much movement clearly painful, it was help in the kitchen that Edward seemed to need most. Beyond that, it was companionship. He certainly didn’t ask for that, but Thomas was happy to provide it. Thomas prodded at Edward, asking after his sister, how long he’d lived in the flat, about the pictures pinned to the fridge. 

Edward liked to feel useful, too. Thomas knew that from the way he’d hovered near the kitchen. He quickly learned to prepare simple tasks for Edward to contribute with. His range of motion was limited, but he could use his good arm to stir a pot or toss a salad. He seemed to be at ease when he was helping Thomas in some way. 

“Can you stir this?” Thomas asked one Thursday, gesturing to the onions browning on a pan on the stove. “Just enough so they don’t burn.” 

Edward nodded and took the spoon. Thomas turned toward the counter where he was organizing produce. They stood back to back. 

Edward looked better today. He’d shaved, which was a bit of a loss in Thomas’s opinion because he’d liked the stubble. His hair was still a bit untidy though, and he wore a grey hoodie, slightly too large. 

The bruises on his chin and jaw were a dark purple now, but fading around the edges. The colour of them had given Thomas a start when he first saw them. He knew there would be bruising, but the sight of Edward after the injury had still inspired a swell of sympathy in Thomas. The stubble on his chin had hidden some of the color of the bruises, but not enough for Thomas not to notice. 

“How has work been?” Thomas asked over his shoulder. 

“Awful. I feel like I live in Skype these days. All I do is answer questions and send emails.” 

“That sounds…” 

“Boring, I know,” Edward sighed. “I don’t want to talk about emails, though. How was work for you?” 

“A mess.” Thomas plucked a wooden spoon from the container on the counter and turned toward the stove, standing shoulder to shoulder with Edward. “But I don’t want to talk about work either.” 

“Tell me about practice, then?” 

Thomas did. He knew Edward wasn’t following half of the words he was saying, but he tried his best to explain the difficulty of changing edges in a Choctaw, and why it was frustrating that Le Vesconte suggested twizzles instead of simply crossovers in his upcoming performance. 

“It’s hard getting twizzles to turn continuously. You have to shift your weight from the ball to the heel as you turn backwards to forward, and then quickly back to the ball to turn backwards for the next rotation. Does that make sense?” 

Edward laughed. 

“Not at all,” he said. “But very little about figure skating makes sense to me. Isn’t it enough to just skate, why do you have to do all these fancy tricks, too?” 

“That’s what figure skating  _ is. _ ” Thomas laughed. He took the spoon Edward was using for the onions and poked at the pot. Edward took a step away, so as not to crowd Thomas. “It’s an art, really. You wouldn’t ask a painter why they use all the colours they do. It’s all just a part of the piece.”

“I think it’s impressive.” Edward was watching Thomas. He did that a lot. “I’d never been to a figure skating event before yours. I don’t know anything about them, really. Do you pick your own music?” 

“Sometimes. Henry usually helps. He’s my choreographer. We build the routines together.” 

“Henry,” Edward echoed, leaning back against the fridge. Thomas liked that Edward’s kitchen was big enough for the two of them, that they could stand in it together while Thomas cooked. His own kitchen was much too small for anything like that. “That’s your coach, right? Gore’s friend.” 

“I was surprised they knew each other. Henry always talks rather poorly about hockey.” 

“He came to the game though, didn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Thomas laughed. “And thank heaven for that. I think I would have tried to hop onto the rink if he hadn’t been there to pull me back into my seat.” 

When Edward didn’t respond, Thomas glanced over his shoulder to look at him. He had a frown on his face. Brows knit, dark eyes on Thomas. 

“When?” Edward asked. “At the end?” 

Thomas blinked, incredulous. 

“No. When you fell and everyone seemed more interested in fighting that Sirens player than helping you up.” 

Edward’s expression softened, but his brows stayed pulled together, crowding the bridge of his sharp nose. His eyes fluttered over Thomas’s face as if looking for a better answer. Thomas felt the one he’d just given was perfectly reasonable. Thomas turned away. He liked the attention of Edward’s eyes on him, but this scrutiny was another thing entirely. 

“Henry told me it would be like that, of course,” Thomas said, swirling the wooden spoon in the ragù he was cooking. “He’s been to matches before, he knew it was a violent sport. I did too, but I guess I’m a slow learner.” 

“I’m sorry to have frightened you.” Edward’s voice was soft. Thomas tightened his grip on the spoon. “It isn’t how I would have liked your first match to have gone.” 

“Well, I’d think not,” Thomas scoffed. “I doubt you wanted to end up with a broken collarbone.” 

“No. But if it was going to happen, I’d rather it happened when you weren’t watching.” 

“Stir this, please,” Thomas said, passing the spoon over and spinning away from Edward, not meeting his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s the nature of your sport. You aren’t the first player to be injured, and you won’t be the last.” 

It wasn’t the injury that truly bothered Thomas. It never had been. He’d seen more than enough accidents in figure skating to understand the risks athletes took. The swell of annoyance that rose in Thomas’s chest when he thought of the event had nothing to do with Edward or the game at all. It was all directed at himself. 

He didn’t have time to entertain the idea that was swirling in his head. He’d already accepted his infatuation with Edward. He was handsome, yes, and a good athlete besides. Thomas’s appraisal was at very least reciprocated if the way Edward watched him was any indication. Infatuation of that type led to a passionate liaison or two, but nothing more. Thomas was fine with nothing more, in fact, he preferred it. He had a schedule to think about. 

But this idea, this nagging thought that pushed at the back of his mind, it wasn’t satisfied with a one-night stand. It swelled and flexed every time he brushed hands with Edward in the kitchen, every time Edward scrunched his nose up in a laugh, every time Thomas caught a glimpse of Edward’s real life, the one outside the rink. 

Crayon drawings pinned to the fridge, made by a toddler’s hands ( _ “My nieces,”  _ he’d said of those), a bright gold bobblehead on the windowsill ( _ “He’s the worst defenceman in the NHL. Gore got me him as a gift. _ ”), and the photos everywhere, on the tv stand and the walls and the windowsills. Edward and his sisters as teenagers; Gore’s arm around Edward’s shoulders at a bar, surrounded by the blue and gold of the Leviathans; Edward with a toe-headed toddler on each knee, grinning, a pink party hat jauntily placed on his head. 

Thomas wanted to know  _ that  _ Edward. Wanted to see what he was like at his niece’s birthday parties. Wanted to know inside jokes about him well enough to buy him gag gifts. Wanted to celebrate a win with him at the bar. 

That sounded a lot like dating to Thomas. Proper dating. 

He didn’t have time to date. Didn’t have time to ( _ god forbid)  _ fall in love with someone. 

So, he wouldn’t. It was as simple as that. Thomas told himself the only reason Edward’s injury bothered him was because he was empathetic, that the only reason he’d called was because he was generous, and that when Edward’s sling was removed they would go separate ways. 

Edward was getting better every day. He could stand and walk without as much pain, could use both hands, could raise his left arm at least a little. He’d returned to work, too. Thomas was glad to see his health improving, glad to know he was feeling better. 

He was less glad to know that meant Edward was slipping from his grasp. That Thomas wouldn’t have a reason to help him pretty soon. That was disappointing. Thomas had quite liked the gap Edward had filled in his routine. 

Perhaps they could still do dinners even after Edward could cook for himself. They could go out, maybe. Or just take turns cooking. 

(That  _ definitely  _ sounded like dating.) 

“Oh, uh,” Edward said one Thursday. He frowned, then continued. “We have a match next weekend. I can’t play, obviously. But I was going to go to the game anyway. If you wanted, I could get you a ticket, too.” 

Thomas’s heart swelled with relief. 

“I can do that,” he said, instead of,  _ I’d like that very much.  _

* * *

“Who is Thomas?” Jane asked sharply over the phone, interrupting what Edward had been saying about the wine Thomas had brought last week. “You keep saying Thomas this, and Thomas that. Is he one of the Leviathans?” 

Edward flicked through another channel on the tv, phone held to his ear. It was Friday, which was unfortunate because Thomas didn’t come for dinner on Fridays. But tomorrow they would be going to the Leviathans match together, which was something to look forward to.

“No,” Edward said. “He’s just a friend. We met at the rink.” 

“A hockey player then?” 

“Figure skater. He’s nice. He’s been helping me for a few weeks.” 

_ Nice.  _ The word didn’t hold a candle to Thomas, but Edward didn’t quite feel like saying, ‘He’s stunning, and kindhearted, and far too generous for his own good.’ Jane would never leave him alone if he gushed like that about Thomas. 

But he wanted to. He could have. It was all right there on the tip of Edward’s tongue. 

“Oh, God, Ned, are you dating a figure skater?” There was laughter in her tone, as though the idea was far too amusing for her to entertain. 

“No,” Edward spluttered. “Definitely not.” 

It did kind of feel like dating though, in a backward, confusing sort of way. They had dinner every other night. Thomas had been over to Edward’s flat often enough to have a favourite spot on the couch (right at the corner of the sectional where he could tuck his socked feet into the cushions). Edward knew his favourite tv shows (Edward was appalled to discover he was an HGTV person). Thomas knew the names of Edward’s coworkers and would sometimes ask, “How was work? Did Hodgson send you any more of those chain emails?” (Unfortunately, the answer was yes more often than not.) 

Those were things that friends could know about each other, too. Edward could entertain the idea as much as he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that he and Thomas weren’t dating. He answered Jane honestly when he said they weren’t together. 

“Did you say he’s cooked you dinner?” Jane asked. Her voice took that same challenging, teasing edge Thomas’s sometimes did. 

“Yeah, a few times. Well, a lot of times actually. Remember that Shepherd’s Pie mom used to make? Well, Thomas does basically the same recipe but he cooks the carrots in butter first--” 

“Oh my God, you  _ are  _ dating a figure skater.” 

“We aren’t,” Edward protested. “Christ, Jane, it’s like you’ve never heard of friends having dinner before.” 

“How often do you have dinner together?” 

“Uh, well, Tuesdays and Thursdays. And Sundays usually too, but last weekend he had some big practice thing, so we skipped that day--” 

“Every other day, Ned?” Jane snorted. “How often do you have dinner with Graham?” 

“We go to the pub, sometimes. After games and stuff.” 

“Okay, so let me get this straight, you and your best buddy Graham go to pubs together  _ sometimes _ but you and Thomas have dinner three times a week at your flat, is that what I’m hearing? Sounds like dating to me, Ned.” 

“Well, it isn’t,” Edward snapped. 

He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but Jane was getting very close to pushing on the bruise that had been plaguing Edward for weeks. The bruise that was formed when Edward had failed to ask Thomas out after his match and had only deepened when Thomas began helping him through his injury. 

The problem was this: Edward liked Thomas. He liked him a lot, so much that it was a burning thing in Edward’s chest every time Thomas stepped over his threshold and wormed his way deeper into Edward’s life. Every time he placed a plate on the table with that funny little flourish he did with his arm, tossed back and bowing low like serving Edward was one of his skating moves. Every time Thomas asked after Edward’s injury, or got bored halfway through an episode of House Hunters and skipped to the next one, or said something absurd like, “Well, a double Lutz is really rather easy once you get the hang of the tricky bit with the back outside edge.” 

Liking Thomas wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Edward had intended to ask him out weeks ago, and had missed his chance. Now Thomas was helping him with his injury, which was a kindness beyond any expectation, but it also came with the nagging feeling that if he were to make a move now, ask Thomas to dinner or drinks, the sentiment would be misconstrued. 

Edward didn’t want to take Thomas out as a thank you or to repay some favor. He wanted it because he wanted to do anything in his capacity to make Thomas happy, to treat him right. He wanted Thomas to see it that way, too. Right now, Edward wasn’t sure that was possible. 

Florence-Nightingale syndrome. That’s what they called it when a patient fell in love with their caretaker. It wasn’t what was happening here, not by any capacity, but nothing made Edward’s blood run cold like the idea that Thomas would interpret it as such if he were to confess his feelings. 

So Edward didn’t. He kept things light and friendly, casual, the way friends might. Because they were friends, despite whatever other feelings had sunk beneath Edward’s skin. 

“Fine, fine,” Jane said, laughing. “It isn’t dating. But if it does turn into dating, you will let me know, right?” 

“Sure,” Edward sighed. “But don’t hold your breath.”

“Oh, I won’t. I know how you are about these things.” 

That was certainly true. The infuriating part about growing up with a twin sister was that she knew everything about him. Probably knew him better than he knew himself, in truth. Jane had been there for all of Edward’s awkward high school relationships and his disastrous college romance. Edward knew he really ought to be asking for Jane’s advice with the entire Thomas situation, but he wouldn’t. That was the way of it with siblings. All advice, even the very best of it, was unsolicited and largely rejected. 

He knew what Jane would say, anyway. That he should talk to Thomas, that he should be honest and clear the air between them. He should explain his feelings, and ask if they were reciprocated. 

Edward  _ knew  _ this. And he would do it. Someday. 

Eventually. 

When the time was right. 


End file.
